Book 3 in the Royal Bastards MC
The Montreal Chapter
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Lottie
Shoving off the sofa, Lottie headed for her bedroom closet.
Hidden in the very back was a hanging bag — the bag.
Inside was an outfit she'd once handed off to Sway.
Her best friend had tried it on once. Once had been enough.
Sway had returned it, saying Lottie was the one meant to wear something like that.
Lottie had kept it tucked away, waiting for the right night.
Waiting for the right reason. Well, she was single now.
No strings. No rules. And tonight? Tonight felt like a good night to show the world exactly what it had been missing.
Sliding the clothes aside, she pulled out the bag, laid it on the bed, and unzipped it.
A flash of blood-red vinyl winked at her — the corset dress daring her to step back into herself.
Dragging it free, she hung it on the closet door.
For a long minute, she just stared. Why not?
“Fuck it,” she muttered. She was going out. She was going to look good and feel dangerous doing it. After a quick shower, she styled her hair and painted her face with her signature bold makeup. Sliding into the dress, she felt decadent.
Dangerous. Dominant. All words that had once defined her—and maybe could again.
Black spiked heels finished the look, making her feel tall, untouchable, powerful.
Spinning to the full-length mirror, she cocked a brow.
“Damn. I look hotter than normal.” Laughing, she grabbed her black coat, buttoned it up tight to hide the knockout underneath, and snagged her purse.
Her hand hovered over the door knob. But she didn’t turn it.
Instead, she sighed, pivoted back toward the bedroom, and stripped off the dress.
The heels went back in their box. The dress back into its bag. The closet door clicked closed. She didn’t have it in her tonight. Not really. Not since her ex-boyfriend had kidnapped and tortured Sway. How could she trust men again? Ten months ago, everything had changed.
Tesh's death, the Royal Bastards MC crashing into their lives—it had all torn apart what little faith she had left. Worse, she’d lost Sway in the aftermath too.
They barely spoke anymore. When they did, it was Lottie who reached out, and the responses.
..they were hollow. Short. Dutiful at best. The friendship that had once been her lifeline had frayed into something she barely recognized. And it hurt.
God, it hurt. She tugged on her pajamas and padded to the bathroom.
Staring at her reflection, she yanked her long hair up into a high ponytail and pinned back her bangs.
Mechanical. Going through the motions. Stripping the makeup from her face with a cleansing wipe, she felt the war paint come off layer by layer—until nothing but the raw ache was left behind.
Maybe Sasha still needed her shift covered at the clinic.
Work would be better than sitting here stewing in her loneliness.
Dialing the clinic, she put on her best neutral tone.
“Clinique de Villa.” She heard Sasha answer.
“Soirée, Sacha. Voulez-vous toujours que votre quart de travail soit couvert?” Lottie asked the night nurse if she needed her shift covered.
“Oui. Ce serait génial, Lottie.” Sasha couldn’t thank Lottie enough.
“Vous êtes les bienvenus.(You are welcome.)” Lottie told the girl.
Hanging up, she felt the first breath of relief all night.
At least at the clinic, she could pretend she had somewhere she belonged.
It wasn’t that she craved a man’s attention.
No, what she missed was Sway. Her best friend. Her anchor.
And deep down, Lottie knew part of Sway’s pain was because of her.
It had been her ex, Dawson Franks, who had brought hell to their doorstep.
She didn’t know what had happened to him afterward, but she had her guesses.
Vicious, Sway’s husband, wasn’t exactly the forgiving type.
Maybe it was better this way. Maybe Sway had built her new life without room for old friends.
..especially friends carrying ghosts. The only thing Lottie had gained from it all was her nursing job at Clinique de Villa — a twenty-four-hour place where she could lose herself in work and excuses.
A hiding place. Because honestly? She was a coward.
Razor
If you sit long enough, watching the world go by, it can almost seem perfect.
Until you remember—it’s a lie.
For Merritt Clermont—Razor to his brothers—the only place he ever felt truly honest was on the highway. The wind whipping against his face. The engine rumbling beneath him. The patch on his back shouting his loyalty to the world.
A Royal Bastard. Through and through.
Born into the life, Razor made promises to his mother. He kept them. He earned his medical degree. Built a life beyond the patch.
But when she died… the call of brotherhood pulled him back.
He could have left it all behind. Been anyone, anywhere.
Instead, he chose to become something more. Something forged in blood, iron, and loyalty.
Now he served as the chapter’s head medic — his road name a nod to the sharp hands and sharper mind that kept brothers breathing.
Tonight, though, he needed a break.
Dust caked his skin. Thirst sandpapered his throat. And the damned phone in his back pocket hadn't stopped buzzing.
Leading Truck and Hemlock into town, Razor parked, waited for his brothers to line up, and finally checked his messages.
The screen lit up with a string of texts from Lottie.
Lottie: Razor, doc wants me to close the clinic tonight.
Lottie: The old bastard left me here alone.
Lottie: I tried to lock up, but the alarm went off. Send me the code.
Lottie: CALL ME! The cops are here.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. Lottie wasn’t supposed to be at the clinic. Sasha was. Hitting call, he waited. When she answered, her voice was clipped, pissed.
“I have been calling you!” she snapped.
He almost smiled at the fire in her tone. “Okay, the code is 1232#76,” he told her, waiting for the shriek of the alarm to cut off.
“Hang on,” she muttered, clearly ready to kill the old doctor herself.
Razor listened to the chaos until blissful silence returned.
“The cop wants to talk to you.”
“Put him on.”
The officer's voice crackled through the line. “Dr. Clermont? I’m Officer Dupuis. The—uh, receptionist—”
“Nurse. I’m not a receptionist,” Lottie cut in, voice sharp as a scalpel.
Razor laughed quietly. Feeling mischievous, he tossed out a fake description: “Blonde, blue eyes, tall, curvy. Name’s Colleen Tilly.”
A beat of hesitation. “I think we have a problem, sir.”
Razor chuckled. “Kidding. Her name’s Charlotte McDaniels. She answers to Lottie. Black hair, green eyes, petite. Looks like a vampire.” Sexy smartass that I’m in serious like with.
He heard the officer clear his throat. “That... matches. Thank you, sir.”
Before hanging up, Razor asked, “Mind walking her to her car? That lot’s a damn death trap after dark.”
“No problem.”
Shooting Lottie a text.
Razor- Call me when you’re on your way home.
Hanging up he took the beer Truck handed him. He needed to pull the trigger with the other doctor. He needed to make a change, and soon. Climbing off the bike, he walked with Truck and Hemlock as they headed into the bar.
He listened to the sounds of voices but didn’t hear what was said. His mind was far away from his brothers. He was thinking of a dark-haired vixen—a female that was causing him sleepless nights.
Coming up as in his father’s world did not earn him anything.
Hell, it didn’t earn him the right to breathe.
He had fought hard for his place in this life.
He had worked harder for his degree in medicine and if anyone wanted to take either from him, they would have to be ready for one hell of a fight.
He needed something to shake things up. Maybe he should bend his nurse over an exam room table and get her out of his system. That would shake things up.
“Razor, shot?”
He nodded his head as he took the shot, he needed to get his head out of his ass. Tossing back the shot razor headed for the bar and another round. Taking a seat at the bar he spoke to Truck about the work he wanted to do on his bike. Glancing at his phone razor saw Lottie had messaged him.
Lottie: I’m home. The door’s locked, and I’m headed for a hot bath.
Razor: That’s a lot of information your boss doesn’t need to know.
Lottie: Poor baby, can’t handle me sliding my scrubs down my smooth legs?
Damn woman. His cock twitched.
Razor: Be careful, sweetheart. I’ve got a hell of an imagination. And I know where you live.
Lottie: Naked. Stepping into the tub.
Three pictures followed —
Her feet and blood-red toenails poking through frothy bubbles.
Her thighs, glistening and dotted with foam.
Her smile — and the barest flash of pink nipples peeking through thinning bubbles.
His mouth went dry.
Razor: You, sweetheart, are a tease who needs a firm hand on her ass.
Lottie: Hmmm, I’ll have to find a man willing to put me in my place.
Razor: I might know a guy.
Lottie: LOL. Night, boss.
Razor: Night, Lottie.
He tossed back another shot, trying to exorcise the vision now rooted in his mind:
Lottie, on her knees before him. Hands resting palm-up on her thighs. Head bowed in submission. He adjusted himself. Shit.
He needed to get his head back on straight. But when it came to the little vixen?
Straight was the last thing he wanted to be.